Hitchhikers
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Strange things can be pulled out of Gotham's waters.
1. Hitchhikers

The old man with the grizzled beard and the wooden teeth has seen many things. He's a native Gothamite, for crying out loud! There's things in this city that would have driven a lesser man insane. Take the fuckin' crocodile man. _That's_ a nasty piece of work.

His name is Harry Race, and he has fished these waters for thirty years. He has no wife or kids, but he is the much-beloved uncle of his sister's boys. He takes pleasure in the fact that someone will miss him if anything should happen.

So far, though, he's avoided seeing any of these flashy upstarts that rob banks and blow shit up. He considers himself lucky.

There's a pull on his nets and he hauls them up, expecting one of the freakishly large fish that swims in the river. He'll throw it back if it is.

It's not.

It's two scrawny, shivering people, their clothes clinging to their bodies. Before he can yank them aboard or throw them back, the taller one is getting to his feet and helping his companion up. They work their way out of the nets and the old man's breath catches. Only one person has a mask like that.

The Scarecrow is standing on his boat. The fucking Scarecrow is _standing on his boat_.

"Ah." he says, striding forward. "You are the owner of this vessel, I take it."

Harry says nothing. The Scarecrow doesn't seem to care.

"You will get us some blankets, and then you will go where I direct you. Do as I say, and you may survive with both your sanity and your limbs intact."

"I-I…"

"Or will I have to do it myself?"

"I'll do it."

"Then do so."

Harry goes below for a pair of garish orange shock blankets. When he returns, the sack-faced man is leaning on the railing, looking at the cold water. The woman he has with him is shivering, her arms wrapped tightly across her breasts. If this is who he thinks it is, it's best to keep his eyes downcast. He remembers the story of the ogler, and how he ended up ripping his own tongue out.

"Here."

The Scarecrow says nothing, simply taking the things without a word. One arm is pressed to his chest and two of his fingers are bent wrongly. Someone gave the sorry bastard a good thrashing, then. At least some people are still up for beating down these punks.

The orange seems somehow sinister with _him_ wearing it. Harry will have to burn these when this is all over. If he survives, that is.

"Turn it around."

"What?"

"Now."

He starts up the engine and brings her about, hoping he doesn't have to go far.

"Good. Now go straight until I tell you otherwise. If you do anything to make us look suspicious…"

He doesn't continue. He doesn't need to.

Silence settles over the boat. The only things Harry can hear are the engine and his own raspy breathing. He'll be okay as long as he doesn't deviate from his orders. God, he never thought he'd see the day! Taking orders from a kid, a kid that probably could have done with a whipping in his youth! Oh, if Momma could see him now…

"Turn left. Go slowly."

The raspy voice frightens him and he can't stop himself from flinching. The Scarecrow chuckles, a sound that quickly turns into a badly-muffled cough. Maybe he'll get pneumonia and die.

"_Slowly_, I said."

He slows the boat down to a poke. A moment later, the keys are yanked out of the ignition and tossed into the water. What the hell?

"Thank you for the lift."

"My keys!"

The mask turns to look at him and Harry swears he sees it frown.

"Would you rather let me hear you scream? That can be arranged."

"No."

They stare at each other before there's the _thwap_ of wet blankets hitting the deck.

"Wise choice."

They ease themselves over the side and wade to shore, disappearing in the blackness of the narrows.


	2. Failure

Lupin fan1-I'd be either throwing up or fainting. Hopefully the latter, because I don't think Doctor Crane would be pleased if I puked on his shoes.

Megan S Lox-It was twenty minutes before I saw your review that I wrote two follow-up pieces. Are you psychic?

It's cold, his entire left arm is numb, and he is generally miserable. He barely remembers the hot shower he took to warm up and now he's lying on the grimy mattress they found. He can't see-his glasses were lost earlier tonight.

"Sit up, love. I want to look at your arm."

She slept a bit on the boat. He somewhat remembers her sitting down and leaning against his side, the top of her head brushing against his ribcage.

"Jonathan."

He pulls himself up, the pins-and-needles feeling fading. Kitty settles down beside him and hands him a spare set of glasses. How did she find those?

"Okay…um…I think it's dislocated."

Ouch. This isn't going to be fun.

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He whites out for a second but stays upright. Ohh, he just wants to sleep. His arm doesn't hurt any more, but his fingers do and he's exhausted.

"Just sprained." she says. What's just sprained…oh. Fingers. Good. "Lie down and sleep."

"You're all right?"

"Not a scratch. Just a bit tired and cold. They always seem to go for you."

"Chivalry's not dead." he murmurs. She frowns at him.

"Go to sleep."

He falls back and closes his eyes.

"Night, Kitty."


	3. Late Night

Lupin fan1-You brave, brave soul. I still think I'd be fainting. At least, I hope I would. If I'm unconscious, he can't hurt me.

Megan S Lox-Glad you like it! These all tie in to...every other one-shot on my profile page. Kind of.

Everyone else-That's a wrap! Not bad for an unplanned project.

Kitty sits on the grimy mattress and watches her hair drip onto the equally-grimy carpet below. Beside her, Jonathan is asleep, his breathing soft. Lucky.

Tonight was an absolute mess, had been from the beginning. First their client was late, then it turned out that _somebody_ had tipped the police off to the whole thing. If she ever gets her hands on that little snitch…

Oh, never mind. He's long gone, if he's got any sense. For his sake, he'd better be long gone.

Jonathan groans and she glances at him, wondering if he's waking up. He doesn't seem to be. Probably for the best.

Idiots. They'd had to jump into the filthy, god-knows-what-lives-in-it water or be shot. Ugh. She'll never be clean again. They nearly drowned in that current and now her hair refuses to dry. That long, hot shower probably isn't helping the latter problem.

She napped on the boat and now she's too awake to sleep properly. Or maybe she's took cold to sleep properly. She can't tell.

She fumbles for the towel and wrings her hair out a bit harsher than necessary. They have to move tomorrow, just in case that boatman remembers where he took them.

She scrunches down under the sheet-it needs a wash, but it could be worse-and closes her eyes. She _will_ sleep tonight, god dammit.

There's a noise and she's up in a flash. Croc hasn't been around recently. Or maybe it was the police? Or Batman? Just their luck it'll be Batman. Can this night get any worse?

It's a rat. One of the nasty sewer rats that grows to obscene sizes. She sighs and throws her towel at it. It doesn't even flinch. She gives it the two-fingered salute and settles back down. If it comes too close, she'll gas it.

It turns and scuttles back down the way it came. Wise choice.

"Kitty?"

"Mm."

"Is someone here?"

"Just a rat. Go back to sleep."

She doubts he was really awake to begin with.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He twitches one of his fingers and grimaces.

"That hurt."

"Then don't do it."

"If it gets stiff, it'll hurt more."

Gah! Why can't he go back to sleep? Is that too much to ask?

"Just go back to sleep, love."

"How'd I dislocate my shoulder, anyway?"

"Ask Scarecrow. He was there at the time."

He's quiet for a few minutes and she guesses he's doing exactly that.

"Apparently we gassed somebody and they got violent."

Great. Now will he go back to sleep?

"Mm."

"Night, Kitty."

"Night."

Finally!

For a minute or two she's expecting the rat to come back, but it doesn't. She keeps her eyes closed and hopes nothing else comes in here.

She's still hoping when the Narrows starts to come alive for the day.


End file.
